


At Any Cost

by MundaneChampagne



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: ALL THE MAIN CHARACTERS LIVE, Disabled Character, Eye for an Eye, I promise you a happy ending, M/M, Paragade Shep, Tuchanka: Bomb, Tuchanka: Turian Platoon, With a twist!, because screw Bioware's sad canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneChampagne/pseuds/MundaneChampagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not enough to throw away everything he cares about. It's not enough to be shot in the back by his former friend. But war might be enough. A way to drown his grief and anger and find absolution—or death.</p><p>Instead, Lantar Sidonis finds a friend. And he will fight as hard as he can to hold onto a person who makes life worth living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RSolya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RSolya/gifts).



> Prompt: Two lost turian souls try to find their way in an uncaring world.
> 
> So I'm really glad that I had the chance to write this one! It let me try out a few things that I've been wanting to explore, first and foremost being the twist ending to Eye for an Eye and the aftermath of that.
> 
> Mad thanks to ThreeWhiskeyLunch, LigeiaMaloy, Baus, and Potionsmaster for reading my WIPs, and giving me plenty of feedback to work with. 
> 
> Please note: I am able-bodied, and although I did do a lot of research for this, I am human and can fuck things up! If I fucked something up, please let me know.

He tries to run, but the shot catches him in the back.

His last thought before he loses consciousness is _fuck_.

 

Mostly there's a lot of blurred hustle and bustle, like looking through rain on a window.

He hurts, but he can't tell them that.

 

Sometimes it feels like an electric shock zips up his spine. And sometimes he feels nothing.

 

When he wakes and is lucid for the first time, they ask him a few questions.

Name? Lantar Sidonis.

(He doesn't tell them the false name that he bought. It doesn't really matter anymore)

Age? 23.

Last thing he can remember? The bullet in his back, duh.

Is he in pain? Yes, a shitton.

You're in the hospital. You came out of surgery six hours ago.

(They don't tell him until later that he might not be able to walk)

 

The white days and grey nights blur together. He dozes for long stretches at a time, jerking awake when they come to change the IV or turn him onto his other side.

Soon enough, he's moved out from critical care. He starts physical therapy, and it hurts like a motherfucker _all the time_. His legs are fucking useless. They flop about like dying fish. There isn't much sensation anymore, at least below his waist.

One day, C-Sec officers come into his room. They want to know what information he can give them on his shooting.

Lantar refuses. "There's nothing," he says. "Look, don't bother."

"Do you know who shot you?" the asari asks.

"I know who did it, and I'm not telling you shit." He turns over in bed, faces the window. "I deserved it. It'd be more trouble than it's worth to deal with."

"We can get you justice."

"This _was_ justice. Just close the fucking case."

They don't come back after that.

 

The months pile up. Soon enough, he is able to kind of drag himself along, leaning on a walker and straining to make his feet move. His therapists ignore his constant swearing, and congratulate him on his progress.

It doesn't feel that good to him. Lantar's not sure what he's progressing _to_. The shitty life that he'd left behind when he joined Archangel? A new shitty life, one where he can barely walk, has no friends, frequent nightmares, and the constant reminders of the bullet in his back? That bullet that had been put there by a dear friend who he'd fucked over and left for dead?

One day, he sees a surgeon carrying a tray of tools through the hallway. He sees the scalpel on the tray, the thin blade gleaming in the harsh light. Thinks about how easy it would be to knock into the surgeon, knock the tools to the ground, and palm the scalpel. Use it to end things on his own terms.

And then the surgeon is gone, and the opportunity is gone, but the thought lingers.

 

When they discharge him from the hospital, he doesn't know what to do. He rents a small room, and lives off the blood money.

And then one day, Palaven goes dark.

The news is all over the Citadel. Nobody paid attention when Kar'Shan blacked out, but Earth and Palaven, that's something, and _something_ big is happening. Slowly, everyone starts to figure it out. That there is something out there that wants the galaxy dead.

War is upon them.

And maybe Lantar can't kill himself with a scalpel or a gun, but war isn't a half-bad alternative.

The Hierarchy recruiters laugh at him when he stands at the desk, braced on his crutches. "Some desk job," the one says, reaching for his console. "It's all part of the war effort in the end."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Lantar mutters. "Come on, you can do better than that."

They look skeptically at him. "According to your file," the one says, "you left Hierarchy service shortly after bootcamp. We've got nothing after that, except your accident. What can you contribute?"

"I'm a damn good pilot," Lantar says. It's true, technically, if you don't ask him to fly anything bigger than a shuttle or small fighter. He's flown plenty of the small stuff during his merc career, and later, for Archangel. "I'm pretty sure I don't need working legs for that."

They eye him for a few minutes. Then the one shrugs. "Report to the Hierarchy command post in Zakera at 0900 hours tomorrow. They'll try you out on the flight simulators." He hands Lantar a card. "Good luck, kid."

 

When he is on the flight simulator, the past years vanish and there is nothing but him and his hands and the false sensation of flight.

It is thrilling.

Because for once, nothing is at stake. He doesn't have anything to prove; everyone already gave him skeptical looks when he came here this morning. Nothing really hinges on this except maybe he'll be allowed to go to war, and find some kind of absolution.

But even that vague goal is pushed to the back of his mind. Lantar relaxes, his hands light on the joystick, and just enjoys the feeling of being free.

The illusion is shattered when he steps out of the simulator, but the high of it lingers. And the people assessing his performance nod, and then ask him a lot of questions. His military experience. What he has and has not flown. And then they give him a form to fill out.

And boom, just like that, Lantar is given orders and a departure time. It's hard to carry his bag on his back when walking with crutches, but that's ok.

 

He's been assigned to the Hierarchy 9th Platoon, serving in the 6th Fleet. The platoon is commanded by a Lieutenant Victus. The name sounds familiar, but Lantar can't place it.

When the transport approaches the fleet, he peers out the window and is blown away by the sheer scale of it all. Ships upon ships: massive fighting dreadnoughts, carriers with small fighter planes swooping around them like insects, and the small but deadly frigates. As they move in closer to the carrier where his platoon is stationed, the size of the ship engulfs the entire view. The thing is huge. Lantar feels very small. Even Omega, with its twists and turns and hulking presence, can't compare.

The docking seals hiss. Lantar slings his bag over his back, grabs his crutches, and disembarks with everyone else. Inside the docking area is a bustle. An officer tells him where to go, who to meet. The rest of the ship is no less bustling. Everyone is on a mission. Officers juggling datapads, people moving supplies—Lantar looks around, and when he sees one man with a prosthetic arm, grins to himself. He might not be alone here.

He drops his bag in the crew quarters, which are empty at this time of day. Bunks line the wall, and there's some furniture scattered in the common space. He was told that he was supposed to have a small berth for himself, for accessibility purposes. There's one door on the opposite side of the entrance. It's locked. Curious, he presses his hand to the fingerprint reader, but it buzzes and flashes red at him. Guess not.

He's supposed to meet his platoon in the gym. He tries to remember the directions the officer earlier had given him. Luckily, the ship is laid out sensibly and well labeled, so he doesn't get too lost on the way.

Still, when he reaches the gym, he's panting and his legs are hurting again. He hasn't done this much walking since he got shot. He staggers in and leans against the wall for a moment, looking around. Several groups are sharing the space. He's not sure which person is his new CO. Guess he'll just have to ask someone.

He picks out a likely looking man who's standing on the sidelines with a datapad, observing the training. "Excuse me sir. I'm looking for Lt. Victus?"

The man looks him up and down, taking in the crutches and Lantar's trembling legs. He then turns his attention to a tall turian on the treadmill. "VICTUS!" he screams. The man on the treadmill turns around without missing a beat. "This guy wants to talk to you."

Victus steps down and comes over, rolling his head back and forth. "What do you need?" He's tall, with pale rose grey plating and unusually long mandibles.

Lantar hands him a set of papers. "Lantar Sidonis, sir," he says. "I've been assigned to you as your new pilot."

Victus glances at the papers, then stuffs them in the pocket of his athletic pants. He holds out a hand to Lantar, who fumbles with his crutches to free up a hand, but Victus withdraws his after a few moments. "Good to meet you, Sidonis," he says. "We're scheduled in here for another hour, then dinner is at 1800 hours." He points out a woman across the room. "That's Sergeant Quintus, you'll be serving in her squad. I'll let you introduce yourself." With that, he turns and heads back to the treadmill.

"Uh," Lantar says. "Ok."

The guy leaning against the wall grins at him. "Been a while since you've been on active duty?" he said. "Welcome back."

 

He's not sure what to do with the extra time. He introduces himself to the sergeant, who gives him a brusque welcome and then ignores him. He eventually stakes out some floor space, and tries to remember some of the exercises from physical therapy. His body still hurts like it did months ago.

Dinner is a similarly painful affair. No one bothers to talk to him, and he doesn't try to force himself into a group. He follows his new squad back to their quarters, and then remembers that he has no idea where he's supposed to sleep.

He approaches Quintus. She's immersed in a poker game with a few others. "Excuse me. I don't think I was assigned a bunk...?"

She glances up at him, and jerks her thumb over her shoulder. "That cabin?" Lantar asks, looking over at the locked door he'd tried earlier.

She nods without a word, and looks back down at her cards.

He tries the door again, but it's still locked. He's looking around to find help when a man swaggers up to him. "Who are you and why are you trying to break into my cabin?"

"I—" Lantar hesitates. "I was just assigned here, and I was told that I'm in that cabin...?"

"Well I'm Sergeant Canus, and that cabin is mine," the man drawls. "And I'm not giving it up to some new meat."

Lantar stares at him in shock. He was—what the fuck? It wasn't like he could get up to one of the top bunks. And even the bottom ones would be hard for him to maneuver into. This sergeant had to see that. And the more Lantar thinks about it, the more he realizes that he's being harassed. But he doesn't want to pick a fight with one of the higher ups. Instead, he mutters "My mistake," and backs off.

Fuck this shit. They're all here to fight the same damn war, aren't they? And here's one of the senior NCOs messing around with the new kid instead.

Instead of hanging around in defeat, Lantar decides to do something about it. He leaves their common area, and makes his way down the hall to the lieutenant's quarters.

Victus's door is open, and Lantar can hear conversation floating out into the hall. Lantar can't hear what the person on the other line is saying, but he can hear Victus. And the lieutenant sounds angry.

Whatever this is, he can't interrupt. Lantar leans against the wall, and tries not to listen.

"Absolutely ridiculous. Who did I piss off to deserve this? I needed a pilot, not a charity case."

And with a start, Lantar realizes that they're talking about him.

"Yeah, I thought the Alliance were the only ones hiring crippled pilots. Didn't realize that we'd started as well."

Lantar winces. He doesn't want to walk in directly after the lieutenant stops bitching about him, but neither does he want to go back to the platoon's quarters and sit around under the gaze of that nasty sergeant.

"I know the human's record! But this guy doesn't have anything comparable. He's just going to be a liability."

Fuck you, Lantar thinks. I fought with Archangel. I can handle myself.

"Yeah, I will. I just want you know that I'm not happy about it."

A pause. "Yeah, fine. Signing off."

Lantar can hear the scrape of a chair being pushed back. He steels himself, and slides to the door, and knocks on the doorframe. He sees Victus inside, who looks up and manages to quickly wipe away his shocked expression. "Sidonis," he says. "Come in."

Lantar nods. "Lieutenant."

"Sit," Victus offers, gesturing to a chair. "What can I do for you?"

He's aching all over, but Lantar suddenly has no desire to sit down. "I'll stand, thanks."

Victus's mandibles tighten. "You heard that," he says. It's not a question.

Lantar nods. "Yeah."

Victus sighs. "I'm sorry," he says. "Just been under a lot of stress." He looks off to the side. "I'd—assume you're used to this sort of thing."

Lantar's mouth drops open. He suppresses the urge to growl. "Actually," he says, "I was only injured six months ago, so no, Victus, I'm not _used to it_."

Any other turian commander would call it insubordination. But Victus just straightens up and looks into his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says, and the apology is sincere this time. And then a small smile tugs at his mandibles. "And don't call me Victus," he adds. "That's my father, not me."

"What should I call you then?" Lantar asks. He's on unfamiliar ground here. From what he can remember of his time from the Hierarchy military, none of his commanders have been this informal with him. Then again, none of them would've taken his outburst either.

"When you're on duty, Lieutenant," Victus says. "When you're off duty, Tarquin is fine."

"Who's your father?" Lantar asks. The family name is familiar, he's sure of it.

Victus—Tarquin—looks away. "Adrien Victus," he says. " _General_ Adrien Victus. Kind of hard living in that particular shadow." He shrugs, and looks back at Lantar. "Enough about me," he says. "What did you need?"

"One of the sergeants is shutting me out of the cabin I was assigned," Lantar mutters. Bad form, to throw someone under the bus like that, but he doesn't have much of a choice.

To his surprise, Tarquin laughs. "Canus, right? Yeah, he can be a bit of a prick. Tell you what, tomorrow when everyone's out, I'll get the door programmed to you, and move his stuff. He'll be a lot easier to deal with after the fact."

"Thanks," Lantar says. In truth, he'd been expecting it to be harder, expecting Tarquin to stick up for his sergeant. There was still one thing, though. "Where do I sleep tonight?"

Tarquin smiles. His face is much more relaxed, his tone upbeat and friendly. Lantar doesn't think it's an act. "I've got a bed, you can stay with me. Trust me, everything will go a lot smoother if you don't directly confront him. The group's a little high strung at the moment." He pulls back the sheets and sits with a groan. "You're not the only new one here," he says after a moment. "This is my first real command. I'm still getting to know everyone, and trying to earn their trust. It's been a little frustrating. Anyway," he adds, "we're the new guys. We should stick together."

Lantar nods. "Thanks. I—didn't want to cause any trouble."

Tarquin shrugs. "Can't be helped. I'll make sure they stop harassing you." He sits up against the headboard, a datapad in hand.

Lantar slowly sits, wincing as his body protests. "I should warn you," he says, laying the crutches alongside the bed. "I get bad nightmares."

"I can sleep through anything," Tarquin says. "No problem." He pulls up his omnitool and dims the cabin lights. "I gotta go through a little more paperwork, then I'll turn out the lights. Night."

Lantar adjusts his legs and lays down on his side of the bed. "Night."

For some reason, just listening to the sound of another person breathe relaxes him. He's able to fall asleep easily.

And then for the first time in a while, he has no nightmares.

 

In the morning after the group has gone to breakfast, Tarquin overrides the lock on Sergeant Canus's cabin. Lantar stands and watches as Tarquin hauls out the few personal effects, and reprograms the lock.

He dumps the sergeant's stuff in an empty bunk, which is on the top level. "The last pilot was killed in action," Tarquin murmurs. "This was his bunk. He was very popular with everyone, so I understand why they were reluctant to assign someone else to his old bunk."

"Spirits," Lantar mutters. As if the team needs another reason to resent him.

In the afternoon, Tarquin pulls Lantar and five others aside for a training exercise.

That's what he called it, at least. It was really a trial, Lantar quickly decides—see how well he and the other two pilots could work together. He is paired up with a man named Kaiso to be his gunner, who, Lantar gathered, had been partnered with the dead pilot.

The six of them are put into the flight simulators—the gunners sitting behind the pilots and facing to the stern of the fighter.

And Lantar is amused to note that the simulator programmers have already added Reaper scenarios, only a few weeks into this whole mess.

They are faced with a Reaper—a massive black thing that looks like it should be crawling in an ocean somewhere. Tarquin's orders come over headset. "The most vulnerable spot on a Reaper is the laser emitter. It's closed when the Reaper isn't actively firing, so you can only shoot when the Reaper is engaging.

"I don't expect you to kill it, but I want to see how well you handle the pressure. I'll be keeping mostly hands off during this simulation."

Kaiso, who is sitting in the back of the ship, nods. Lantar can see his face via a camera on his display.

"And begin."

Suddenly, everything is moving, and a voice calls into his earpiece, "Delta formation! Keep moving at all times!"

The senior pilot takes point, and they fall into formation, Lantar keeping the fighter constantly swaying in different directions. Kaiso is able to compensate, and the other fighters adopt similar tactics, but it doesn't do much against the Reaper, which hangs in space like a lightbulb and implacably takes all their shots.

They keep at it for roughly thirty minutes, breaking and reforming formation, scattering whenever the giant laser beam comes their way. It's futile. It's not like the simulated Reaper ever does anything but fire that laser beam, but Lantar feels like he's being laughed at.

"This isn't working," the senior pilot notes grimly. "Change of tactics. We need to get it to open fire, and be able to fire back at the same time. C fighter!" he calls, "run distraction. We'll fall back and hit it with everything we've got."

"Yessir," Lantar says, but hesitates.

"You know they're sacrificing us, right?" Kaiso says. "Nobody can distract that thing and hope to live."

Lantar clenches his mandibles. "I know."

He can see his gunner's face in the monitor, Kaiso's head tilted, with a hard expression. "Would you be able to do this in real combat…?"

"Victory, at any cost," Lantar says, and dives, swooping down in front of the Reaper. He can see his gunner give a satisfied nod, and they open fire.

For a few precious minutes, they soar, flying rings around the Reaper. Its laser cannon cannot keep up with them, and Lantar hears the reports of progress made from the other two fighters. But after he pulls up and readies for another run, the laser comes their way. The flight simulator shakes them, and all the monitors go black. Then the overhead lights flick on.

Lantar pulls off his helmet and exhales. "Well. Hope that was worth it."

Kaiso stretches and nods. "Not half bad, I'd say. Spirits. Those things are like mountains. I don't know how we're ever going to win this."

There doesn't seem to be anything Lantar can say to that, so he just keeps quiet. After a few minutes, the simulator doors open and light floods in. Lantar carefully extracts himself from the pilot's seat, and meets with the others.

Tarquin is sitting in front of a monitor. He looks up and smiles. "Nice work, all of you. I didn't expect that you'd kill it, but you held out well. Take a break. I'll see you at dinner."

 

That night, Lantar just sits quietly in the back of the common space as Canus pitches a fit about being evicted. He eventually calms down, but Lantar waits until he is drinking with some others before edging his way to the cabin, and letting himself in.

He plops down on the bed and takes stock. It's really nothing more than a closet with a bed and footlocker. It's slightly hard to maneuver in the cramped space.

That night, he finds himself waking frequently again, the nightmares draining from his mind but resuming with clarity each time he falls back to sleep. Before last night, he'd forgotten what it was like to sleep peacefully, and now that he's had a taste of that, he hates going back to his old shitty sleeping routine.

In the early hours of the morning, he can't take it anymore, and abandons his bed. He lays down on the couch in the common space. It's uncomfortable; his legs and spurs and fringe don't quite fit and he can tell that he is going to ache in the morning. But he can hear everyone's quiet breathing, interspersed with an occasional snore or word spoken in sleep. The sounds are comfortable. Reassuring. He is able to sleep the last few hours without trouble.

 

Training, training, drilling, and practice over the next few days. Lantar obviously doesn't participate in the combat simulation with the rest of the platoon, instead spending more time with the flight simulator and beginning in the firing range. His skills are still fine, Garrus's lessons sharp in his mind. He has to shoot from a sitting position, because his legs are not strong enough to absorb the force of firing the gun. That's ok. He does well from a chair.

He continues sleeping on the couch, and he always wakes up with terrible back pain. It's not bad, really; it distracts him from the usual pain in his legs, the pain that no amount of drugs would help with. He's supposed to wean off the painkillers if he feels up to it, but he really doesn't, and the military doctor tells him that's ok, whatever he needs to function.

In truth, he's itching to do something. The 6th Fleet is continuing to patrol Citadel Space, but there are rumors that they might bring in the 5th Fleet to do that job and that they might actually head out to the Traverse. To where the Reapers are.

A week later, he's finally put his feet up for the day and begun to massage the pain out of his calves when he gets a ping. The Lieutenant wants to see him.

He grabs his crutches and staggers down the hall to Tarquin's quarters. The door is open again. Tarquin looks up from his desk. "Sidonis," he says, "Sit—" but Lantar's already collapsing onto the edge of the bed before Tarquin can complete the invitation.

"Sorry," he mutters. "Hurting like hell."

"It's ok." Tarquin spins around in his chair, faces him. "I just wanted to talk to you about something. Nothing bad—" he adds as Lantar pulls his mandibles in. "I just wanted to make sure you're all right. You don't really spend a lot of time with the others and I'm worried that they're not getting along with you."

Of all the— "I didn't come here to make friends," Lantar grumbles. "I came here to do a job. Am I not performing well in training?"

"You're doing fine," Tarquin says, a strange look crossing his face. "I—just wanted to make sure you're settling in ok."

"I'm fine," Lantar says. "And what about you? You don't spend time with us, and I've seen you, you never hang out with the other officers." Cheap tactic, throwing an unwelcome question back in the Lt.'s face, but Lantar is hurting and he's not really in the mood for talking tonight.

Insubordinate, again. Tarquin's mandibles snap to his face. "I guess—I'm here to do a job as well."

"Good. Then we understand each other," Lantar grumbles. He moves to stand. "Am I dismissed?"

"Actually, one other thing. I understand you've taken to sleeping on a couch in the common room? Is that—" His mandibles flutter, obviously unsure how to word this. "—ok for you? I mean, with your—condition?"

"No," Lantar snaps. "It hurts like fuck, but I can sleep better when I've got other people around me. I gotta fucking pick one, don't I? Sleeping or being in pain. I picked sleeping. I can deal with the fucking consequences."

Tarquin slumps back in his chair. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this."

"What, getting shot in the back? Yeah, I'm fucking sorry too."

Tarquin's eyes widen, but he doesn't comment. "I—"

"If that's it," Lantar says, "I need to get some sleep."

Tarquin looks away. "If you want to sleep in a real bed," he says, "mine is open."

Lantar, in the midst of arranging his crutches and moving for the door, pauses and turns around. "You're not doing this out of pity, are you? Because I don't need that."

Tarquin sighs. "I'm offering you another option. It's up to you if you take it or not."

They linger for a moment. Lantar turns his face away. He doesn't want to look at Tarquin. "Yeah," he says. "Ok." He lingers another moment, then makes his way back over to the bed and collapses on it, not ungratefully. He drops the crutches, kicks off his shoes, and pulls his feet up onto the mattress so he can get back to kneading out the kinks in his muscles.

Tarquin nods. He pauses. "If—you don't mind me asking—that is, tell me if it's not ok—what's it like?"

He doesn't have to elaborate. "It fucking sucks," Lantar mutters. "Took months before I could even stand again. Can't feel much, not past a certain point. Goes hand in hand with not knowing if you're going to piss yourself or not." He laughs bitterly, lays down, stares at the ceiling. "I'm in pain, most, all the time. The drugs don't always help. I'm probably gonna have more health problems down the line. If I even make it through this war."

At that, they are both silent. "Battle?" Tarquin eventually asks.

"No. My friend."

"I'm sorr—"

"No. I fucked him over. I deserved it. Spirits, stop apologizing. You didn't do anything."

Tarquin stands, stretches, and moves to the bed. He turns off the light and they lie there in the dark."I'm not sure you'll have to worry about making it through the war," Tarquin murmurs.

"You don't think we're going to win." It's not a question. He's surprised.

"I don't know if we _can_ win. It's not easy to get news from the front lines, but I've heard a few things. These aren't like _anything_ we've ever fought, ever. Not like Krogan, not even like Rachni. From what I've heard, the best we can do is hold them off and keep people out of their path."

"Well, that's reassuring."

"How so?"

"Nothing really matters that much if we die in a month."

There's a shuffle from the other side of the bed. "That's…one way of looking at it. I wish I could feel that ambivalent about things."

It's easier to be honest, laying in the dark.

The next night, they do the same thing. Except this time it's Tarquin who's bitching about life in general. "I don't know if I was cut out for this," he says.

"Cut out for what?" Lantar asks.

"Command. Hell, military life in general. War is supposed to run in the Victus blood. Well, either my mother slept with someone else, or I'm the genetic weirdo in my family."

Lantar shrugs. "I looked up the General. You look just like him."

"That's what I'm told." There's an amused note in Tarquin's voice. He's an open book when he drops his guard, even in the dark.

"What do you want to do, if not this?" Lantar asks.

There was a pause. "I don't know," Tarquin says. "I never considered that I could have a life outside the military. It's never been an option. What about you? What would you be doing, if not for the war?"

His answer is the same. "I don't know either. All I've ever done is merc stuff. And—well, get shot in the back as a result."

They were silent for a while. "I guess that's why I don't spend time with the other officers," Tarquin eventually mutters. "I feel like I don't deserve to be here."

"Do you?" It's a bold question, but Lantar feels ok asking it. They're not strangers anymore.

"I don't know. Sometimes I feel like my father has a little too much interest in my career. It doesn't matter to me, as long as I can be useful, but I don't want to screw things up. Peoples' lives are in my hands. Including yours."

"Well, I trust you." _Not that it matters, much,_ he mentally adds. _I don't really care if I live or die_.

"Thanks." Tarquin's voice is weak. "That does mean a lot."

 

It becomes a regular thing, this spending nights with his commanding officer. It ceases to be weird to Lantar quickly enough (probably the familiarity of the informal structure of Archangel and the other merc groups he'd been with), but when the others pick up on it, the odd looks and questions begin.

When he begs off training for an afternoon to see the doctor (again, and how many painkillers can the man give him?), and Tarquin lets him go without a word, things really come to a head.

"You get things so much easier than we do," a corporal grumbles at him in the common area that evening.

"It's because he's fucking the Lieutenant," someone says.

Lantar snorts in disbelief. "I _wish_ ," he snaps. "Nah, the thing about being paralyzed? It plays hell with your sex life." They leave him alone after that. Mostly because he grabs his crutches and escapes.

He pauses in the hall for a moment. _Would_ he fuck Tarquin if given a chance? Yeah, he admits, probably. Tarquin's nice enough, once he stops saying stupid shit about Lantar's "condition" and actually gets on a person's level. And those long mandibles. Lantar decides that he would like to run his tongue along those mandibles. He shrugs mentally. Not like he's ever going to get the chance.  

And besides, he hadn't been lying. Being paralyzed really did play hell with a person's sex life. Lantar is sure that sex is not on the table for him anytime soon. Or ever.

Tarquin provides an excellent distraction from his musings. Tarquin closes the door behind him as Lantar enters his quarters, a serious expression on his face. "We're going to Tuchanka."

" _What?_ "

"There's a new Primarch, or so I've heard, and apparently he wants an alliance with the krogan." Tarquin flicks a mandible. "Not going to be the easiest thing to achieve. The 6th Fleet is going to be stationed in the DMZ as a gesture of goodwill. That's the official line. In reality, we're going to be making sure the Reapers don't take down the best shot we have at liberating Palaven."

"Shit," Lantar mutters. "Reapers _and_ krogan?"

"Yeah, I know. Don't breathe a word of this, this is pretty classified. For now. Everyone will find out soon enough."

"Not like I have anyone to tell it to. When are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

Lantar exhales. "Well. At least I know what I signed up for. Unlike the last time."

"What—happened the last time?" They've been dancing around the subject for a while. Tarquin is clearly curious, but hesitant to ask. And Lantar isn't sure if he ever wants Tarquin to know. He doesn't want to lose the lieutenant's respect.

"Got sucked into something a lot crazier than I anticipated," he mutters. "It was ok. While it lasted." He hesitates. Maybe he should just tell Tarquin. No one else knew what he'd been, what he'd done. Except Garrus. And even Garrus didn't know the whole story.

Maybe it would be easier to carry this burden if he wasn't the only one shouldering it.

He sits next to Tarquin on the bed. "On Omega," he says. "You heard of Archangel, right?"

Tarquin's eyes widen. "Of course. It was the biggest story to come out of the Terminus in—years."

"Yeah. Well. I was a part of that."

"Seriously? That's amazing." Tarquin's mandibles suddenly flicker, and his expression shifts. "But—didn't they all die? How did you survive?"

"That's the fuck-all of it," Lantar mutters. "Not everyone died. I got out—and the leader. I—fuck." He takes a breath. "I had a choice. I don't think it was much of a choice in the end, though. The fucking gangs captured me, pressed me for information on Archangel. I—they told me that if I didn't sell everyone out, then they would kill dozens of people. I think—they blew up a residential district. That's what they said, at least. I didn't see a choice. I gave them up. And they let me go, and paid me well for stabbing my friends in the back."

There's a silence, filled with nothing but Tarquin staring at him. Lantar doesn't look up, doesn't meet his eyes. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea.

"So the leader, he came after me and tried to kill me for what I'd done. Obviously it didn't work. Kinda wish it had."

Still the silence. Lantar can't take it anymore.

"If you don't have anything to say, I'll just go," he mutters.

And then there's a weight on him, and it takes Lantar a moment to figure out what's happened—Tarquin has thrown his arms around him, drawing him close in an embrace. Lantar holds his body stiff for a moment, then, giving up, slumps into Tarquin's arms. "What?" he says weakly.

"All this," Tarquin says, whispering against his neck, "and you went back to war?"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"That is beyond brave of you," Tarquin says. He squeezes Lantar again, and releases him. "I'm proud to call you a friend."

Lantar stares at him. Tarquin was crazy, he decided. Not to say something about being a disgusting, cowardly traitor—he wasn't brave, he didn't fight out of some nobility or anything like that. "I thought you weren't here to make friends." It's the only thing he can think to say.

Tarquin smiles. "So maybe I didn't intend to. But I'm ok with it. You've helped me so much. You're the only one I've really been able to talk to, the only one who doesn't see me as an extension of my father, the only one who doesn't resent me because they transferred a really good leader and I was his replacement. The only one who doesn't judge me because I'm terrible at command."

"Well," Lantar says weakly, "good to know that there is one person who wouldn't rather have me dead." Yeah, he thinks, Tarquin is crazy—and also a lot like him, putting up a façade against all sorts of shitty feelings. Lantar can live with that. They're more alike than he'd realized. Not a bad kind of person to be friends with. "So," he says, "Tuchanka."

 

"All hands, prepare for mass relay transit."

The order comes over the ship's com system. Everyone grabs hold of something, braces against a wall, sits.

"Transit in 6…5…4…3…2…1."

That strange shift, that jump in the gizzard—not like there are windows in the carrier to see out of, but the sensation of motion is still there.

A few hours later, he's standing in formation with the rest of the Ninth Platoon. It's the first time he's seen Tarquin in armor. A major is with him. They talk quietly for a moment, then Tarquin turns and addresses the platoon.

"Ninth Platoon! The human terrorists Cerberus have seized a bomb on Tuchanka. If they detonate it, they will jeopardize all hope for our alliance with the krogan and start a new war! We are being sent to eliminate Cerberus and safely defuse the bomb. Failure is not an option!"

Lantar could get used to Tarquin barking orders. It's kinda hot, he admits to himself.

The major steps forward. "Primarch Victus assigned this mission personally. We cannot let him down."

The platoon is disciplined enough not to react except for some sideways glances and mandible twitches. Tarquin, on the other hand, swings his head to the side to stare at the major. After a moment, he turns back to them. "Ninth Platoon, dismissed!"

They file out in orderly rows. Lantar glances back. Tarquin is obviously trying to contain his reaction, but isn't succeeding very well. The major just crosses her arms and gives him an irritated glare. Lantar turns away, allows himself to be swept along with the motion of everyone else.

This jaunt to Tuchanka just got a whole lot more interesting.

 

"I swear, I didn't know." Tarquin is pacing around his cabin. "I didn't fucking know. I wish I didn't know!"

"Hey. No one who saw you would believe otherwise." Lantar is lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Tarquin's been at it for a while now.

"I don't like this." Tarquin pauses,  braces himself against the wall, his back to Lantar. "This mission is too big, too important. We're hardly the most qualified. _I'm_ hardly the most qualified. My father wants this to be a feather in my cap, I'm sure of it. But if it goes wrong, it'll blow up in _both_ our faces."

"So let's not get it wrong." Probably not the most comforting thing to say in the moment, but Lantar can't think of anything else.

Tarquin plops down on the bed, his face buried in his hands. " _Primarch_ Adrien Victus. Commander Shepard had to pull him off Menae for negotiations, they told me. Fedorian is dead." He shudders out a sigh. "He used to invite my father and I over for dinner. He was a good person. He didn't deserve to be shot down by Reapers."

" _No one_ deserves Reapers." Lantar remembers the vids the platoon had been shown from the front lines. They needed to be prepared, but the Reaper-things haunt his dreams. Twisted versions of themselves, used as cannon fodder for those _things_.

Tarquin groans. "I can't do this. I can't fucking do this. We might as well sign away any chance of winning the war right now."

"Hey." Lantar pushes himself up into a sitting position. "Listen to me. You can do this. You don't have to be your father. I trust you. The others will put their trust in you. And you gotta trust us. We'll get through it, we'll defuse the bomb, and you can deal with your father afterwards. It's just one mission, and we'll pull it off." He reaches out to Tarquin, wraps his arms around him, and pulls him close.

Tarquin trembles in his arms, but lets out a sigh and relaxes back into Lantar. "Thank you," he whispers.

Lantar tightens his grip, rests his head on top of Tarquin's, flutters his mandibles in a soothing manner. "We got this," he says. "You got this."

And he could sit all night with Tarquin in his arms, forget about what the morning might bring, forget about the war, and just enjoy the warmth of the first friend he's had in so long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mission as it's written in the game made no bloody sense to me, so I've done a lot of reworking of the timeline and details.
> 
> This is also my first time writing detailed smut. ._. Please be gentle.

"We can't descend on the bomb directly from orbit," Tarquin explains. "Cerberus has AA guns, too much ground support. We're approaching the site from a distance. One shuttle and two fighters to support it."

The platoon nods.

"When we first land, objective is to clear out as many Cerberus troops as possible. If it looks human, shoot it. The fighters will prevent Cerberus detonating the bomb before we can access it."

Sergeant Quintus speaks up. "And if we can't get to the bomb before they detonate it?"

Tarquin pulls his mandibles in. "Then we take as many of them down as we can before they evacuate."

They're all silent. It's not a pretty conclusion. But they're here to do a job, and it will get done.

"Hangar 7, half hour!" Tarquin calls. "Dismissed."

 

Lantar settles into the pilot's seat, setting his crutches aside and beginning pre-flight checks. He's been assigned to the shuttle. At least he won't have to run and gun after Cerberus, but this means that most of the platoon's lives are in his hands. Tarquin parks himself in the co pilot's chair and sets a hand on Lantar's shoulder. Lantar just nods to him.

There's a loud hissing sound as the shuttle pressurizes. The hangar door opens, and the fighters spill out into space, the shuttle following close on their tails.

They fall down in formation towards Tuchanka, the planet looming below them. After a few moments, they pull up and hang in orbit. Tarquin inputs the coordinates into the shuttle's computer, and forwards their flight path to the fighters. "5 klicks to approach," he says. "Should keep Cerberus from detecting us prematurely."

The other pilots acknowledge, and as one, the three ships fall towards the surface. As they hit atmo, the shuttle shakes slightly as Lantar attempts to compensate for the turbulence. He can see the exterior temperature gauge rising as the air heats up against their hull. Tuchanka's atmosphere is heavy, much heavier than any he's ever experienced. Probably explains why the native fauna gets so large.

They clear the cloud layer and once again pull up, aligning themselves with the planet's surface. Lantar scans their flight path. A straight shot to the bomb site. He accelerates, the shuttle sandwiched safely between the two fighters. The rugged landscape blurs beneath them.

The senior pilot's voice crackles over his headset. "Trouble up ahead. Reaper signatures."

Tarquin reaches out and pulls up the radar display.

"Fuck," Lantar says. The display is glowing with enemies.

"Engaging would mean some losses, at the very least," Tarquin says. "Pull up!" he orders, and Lantar reverses the engines to bring them to a stop. "I don't want to have to take on Cerberus with anything less than we've got," he mutters.

"Can we just fly above them?" Lantar asks.

"Negative." Tarquin's voice is strained. "They've got air support."

"They've noticed us, LT!" The pilot calls. "We gotta act fast!"

"There's an extensive ruin system a klick away," Tarquin says, scanning the map. "Head that direction."

"But sir—"

"That's an order!"

Lantar hits the controls, and the shuttle pitches to the side. The fighters take a moment to react, but once they do, they quickly evade the oncoming Reaper forces.

"Sir, we're not going to have any room to maneuver if we run into trouble in there," the head pilot comments.

"It's still safer than engaging with Reapers head-on," Tarquin replies. "I'm not taking that chance."

"Yes sir."

 

"Wow," someone breathes in the back, peering out a window.

"You're telling me," someone else says. "I didn't know krogan were capable of this kind of architecture."

"Definitely not anymore."

The ruins are cramped. Lantar and the fighters are zipping over tight streets, rounding corners. The place is a maze. All the stonework is crumbling. Whatever this city used to be, it's just a shadow now.

"I don't like this," Lantar mutters. "All the structures are blocking radar signal. If something's lurking out there, we won't know til we're face to face with it."

Tarquin's mandibles are set tightly against his face. "We'll make it," he says.

They are famous last words, because just then they turn another corner and Reapers are there.

"Shit!" Lantar screams. Tarquin's barking orders into the com, but Lantar's brain filters them out. All he can concentrate on is dodging the sudden fire and trying to evade their two fighters.

"There are too many!" the head pilot yells.

A shot catches the shuttle and it shudders around them. Lantar can hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the guns from the fighters. The Reapers are thick enough that their fire has some effect, but they're heavily outgunned.

"Just run for it!" someone calls, and it seems like a good idea, so Lantar quickly glances at the map to reorient himself to the bombsite, then guns the accelerator. The fighters fall into line behind him.

He swerves around corners, only careful handling of the engines keeping them from smacking into a building. The Reapers aren't far behind, but the three ships are gaining speed. Reapers don't have mass effect drives. At least, not these small ground troops.

The hail of fire from the Reapers though, that never ceases. Bullets rebound off walls, and occasionally make a ping on their hull. Lantar makes sure to constantly keep the shuttle moving, dodging, making it harder to aim, but there's so little space and only so much he can do.

And then there's a shout over the com, followed by static—

And a large explosion behind them.

"Shitshitshit," Lantar mutters.

"We've lost B fighter," Tarquin says, and his voice is grim. All Lantar can do is swerve and take another turn, pushing the accelerator as fast as he can go and still be able to maneuver, and try not to think about anything else.

And finds himself at a dead end.

"Reverse!" he screams into the com. The fighter behind them soars above, looping into a reversal. Lantar's not going fast enough to try something that fancy, at least not without the possibility of injuring his passengers. He pulls a quick spin, then follows the other fighter as it tries a different direction.

They meet the Reapers head-on, and the gunfire is heavy.

The second fighter goes down in a tailspin.

The shuttle has no guns. He could open the doors and let the soldiers fire from inside, but he doesn't want to risk it. Instead, he just soars, rising over the worst of the gunfire and smoke and—spirits—

In his mad dash to escape, the shuttle clips a building. He's tossed to the side from the shock, but keeps his hands on the controls and quickly rights himself, ignoring any precautions he had taken earlier with the speed.

There's a thump on the shuttle's stern, and the displays start lighting up with alarms. Lantar guides the shuttle through the impact, and clenches his jaw and keeps going, but there's another impact, and he loses most of the control he has left.

He can keep it in the air a few more seconds, he estimates, but the situation is bad. But then—the street opens into a wide plaza, and Lantar lets out the breath he's been holding. He can try for a crash landing. It's the only thing he can do. "Brace for impact!" he screams, and guides the shuttle down, and lets go the controls and curls up into a ball right before they hit the ground.

 

There's smoke, and there's dust, and there's shouting, gunfire—

And hands wrap around his arms and pull him out, dragging him out of the pilot's chair (tipped forward at a very strange angle, like he's falling), and pulling him out of the shuttle.

The sunlight hits him like a brick to the face. He coughs and squints, and his legs are on the verge of collapse. His rescuers set him down on a ledge, and prop him into a sitting position.

"How many made it?" Lantar asks in between coughs.

"Thanks to you, everyone who was on the shuttle," someone says. Lantar's eyes are finally adjusting to the light, and he's able to make out the forms of Tarquin and Sergeant Quintus against the sky. "We've got Reaper problems though."

"We're trying to hold a perimeter," Tarquin says.

"Give me a gun," Lantar says. "I can't walk but I can shoot."

The Sergeant tosses him a pistol and a few heatsinks.

The heatsinks don't last long.

 

It's exhausting, the hours. Lantar just sits and shoots when he has a clear line. The reapers seem to come in waves, as if all the ones in the area are abandoning their posts to come fight the stranded turians.

They take a breather whenever they get the chance, passing around water and additional heatsinks. The mission hadn't been expected to last more than a day; if they keep going like this, they'll be out of supplies before the chance to confront Cerberus even comes up.

During a break, they take stock, tallying their inventory and counting the dead. The onslaught has worn them down; people have been making mistakes, and that's cost lives.

Tarquin sits on the ledge with a groan. "I put out a distress call to the fleet," he says quietly. "I don't know how much they'll be willing to do for us. This mission was extremely classified, and they won't be wanting to draw attention." He's silent for a moment. "We'll keep going as long as we can," he adds. It's the only thing he can say.

"if we hadn't tried to hide in these ruins, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place," someone mutters. There are murmurs of agreement.

"Quiet in the ranks!" Tarquin says. "Whatever did or did not happen, this is our situation now, and we will handle it."

There are grumbles of discontent, but nobody says anything else.

And then Lantar spies a husk emerging from behind a column. "Behind you!" he calls, and the fighting resumes.

 

The day wears on. Tuchanka's bright sun dips lower in the sky. The shadows in the ruins grow longer. Ashes and embers from the battle fall around them like rain. The Reapers haven't let up; giant flying monstrosities hover in the sky, bringing more troops with them.

In between gunshots, a radio on the ledge crackles with static. "This is Commander Shepard of the Alliance Navy. Do you read?"

Lantar's head shoots up. "Lieutenant!" he yells. "We've got backup!"

Tarquin races over and snatches up the radio. "Lieutenant Tarquin Victus of the Ninth Platoon." He doesn't even pause to ask who's on the other end. "We're pinned down and have taken heavy causalities."

"I need you to fire a flare so I can locate your position." The Commander's voice is staticky, but it's _there_. It's the famous Commander Shepard. They're saved.

"Flare!" Tarquin yells over his shoulder. Someone grabs a bag of supplies and quickly extracts a flare gun, sending the red beacon into the sky.

"Got it. We'll be right there."

"Who is it?" Tarquin asks, putting the radio down.

"Commander Shepard," Lantar says, and Tarquin's mandibles drop open. At the same time, a cold shiver goes down Lantar's spine. _Commander Shepard_. A legend, yes, but also the woman who had called him over to her and stood aside so that he could be shot.

 _Fuck_.

He really does not want to see that face again.

Maybe she won't recognize him.

It's the most he can hope for.

 

The last assault is the worst. Harvesters they call them, but they don't harvest anything, rather raining shots down on the ground.

When the Commander shows up, the harvesters fall out of the sky along with the debris of battle. The sky is dark with smoke and clouds rolling in, obscuring the late day light.

So many are dead by this point. Lantar only watched, helpless, as people fell and he couldn't go to them. The people who do, they straighten up the bodies and then rise with grim looks on their faces. There's muttering in the ranks. Someone goes over the radar data from earlier. If they'd faced the Reapers straight on, they would've gotten to the bomb site easily by the afternoon. Instead, their desperate firefight had only drawn more of the creatures.

And now most of the platoon is dead.

And Commander Shepard is striding into the plaza, heavily armed.

And of course she has Garrus Vakarian with her. Because the anticipation of reliving his shooting couldn't get any worse, apparently.

Tarquin hops off the ledge and goes to meet her. "Thank you," he says.

She nods. "What happened here?"

And of course it's Sergeant Canus who grabs the front of Tarquin's armor and pulls him into his face. "He screwed up," Canus snarls, dropping his mandibles to show his teeth.

"Stand down Sergeant!" Tarquin barks, glaring at the man. Canus lets him go and walks away, overtly fuming.

"Lieutenant?" the Commander asks.

"I made a bad call." Tarquin's face is stiff, trying to hide the strain of the day. "Now all we can do is stabilize the wounded and try to get to the fleet."

"You're abandoning your mission?"

"We're down too many people. It'd be suicide."

Shepard's getting more and more annoyed. "What exactly is your mission?"

Tarquin tells her about the bomb, and Cerberus. Shepard gets up in his face. "If Cerberus is involved, you need to finish the mission."

"I don't have the people! I don't have the resources! All we would be doing is getting ourselves killed. And if we provoke Cerberus, then they will detonate that bomb without question."

Shepard folds her arms. "I can provide backup. Can your shuttle fly?"

"I don't know." Tarquin's voice is weary. "We've been fighting since we crashed."

"I'll get my pilot in here, he can take a look at your bird." She sighs and turns, scanning what's left of the platoon. "Let your people take some rest. We'll stay with you. The area's clear of Reapers, I think we mopped up all that was left." She turns back to him. "Lieutenant? Make sure your people understand the importance of what you're doing. This mission could be the point at which we win or lose this war."

As if they need any more pressure, Lantar thinks.

Tarquin acknowledges her, and turns away to tend to some of the bodies. Shepard brings up her omnitool, making a call to her pilot. Lantar just stays sitting on that ledge, making some pretense of inspecting his gun. He wants to run away but he can't and he dreads the moment that Garrus sees him.

That exact moment. Garrus turns away from Shepard and freezes when he sees Lantar, who pretends he doesn't notice. Garrus says something to Shepard, who also turns to stare at Lantar. Then she puts a hand on Garrus's arm, says something, and leads him away.

Lantar just tightens his mandibles and shifts uncomfortably on the stone ledge.

Soon enough, Shepard comes up to him. Lantar's surprised. He'd assumed that Garrus would be the first one to get in his face. But Shepard doesn't do that. Instead, she just sits down next to him with a slight groan. Lantar can't help twitching a mandible in sympathy. He's hurting too.

"Didn't expect to see you here," she says.

"Yeah," he says. "Well." _You were an accessory to my attempted murder. Of course you're surprised._

"So you lived."

"Yes?" What the hell's he supposed to say to that?

"Are you ok?"

"Why do you care?" he says. "And I can't walk anymore, if you're interested."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I never meant for that to happen."

"No. You wanted me dead." Her apology is worth nothing.

She stares down at her lap. "For what it's worth, I didn't think about you. At the time, I thought it would best for Garrus to have his revenge and stop dwelling on what happened. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Doesn't do either of us any good now," he grumbles. "Look. I don't particularly care. Just keep him away from me."

She nods. "Yeah. No problem." And she leaves him to his thoughts.

The Alliance shuttle meets them a little while later, and they get to the task of getting the turian vessel working.

"It's not too bad," Tarquin tells him. "Few hull breaches that need to be patched, some systems that need resetting and testing. You put a bit of a dent in it when you hit that building." He grins. "Need to make sure that the steel is study enough that it won't burst under pressure changes."

Lantar shrugs. "Glad I didn't break it too badly. In better condition than our fighters, that's for sure."

The grin slips off Tarquin's face.

"Sorry," Lantar mutters. "Can't exactly see the humor in this."

"No, you're right." Tarquin sighs. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry I got us into this."

A bright flash catches Lantar's eye and he turns around. The human pilot is welding a patch onto their hull. Lantar quickly turns back, not wanting to hurt his eyes from the light of the welder.

"It'll be dark soon," he says, spots flashing in his vision. "We're not gonna take on Cerberus at night, are we?"

"Not on Tuchanka," Tarquin says. "We'll wait til dawn." He stares into the distance, twitches a mandible. "It might take that long to get things set up, anyway."

Lantar nods.

The sky turns crimson as the sun slowly sets. The red light turns the blood on the ground black. The welding casts stark flickering shadows on the debris of the ruins.

Garrus has mostly ignored him. Every once in a while, he turns, glances in Lantar's direction, turns away quickly. Like it hurts him to look.

For all her treachery, calling a man over to be killed, Shepard has kept her promise to keep Garrus away. It's an uncomfortable stalemate, but Lantar much prefers this to any confrontation. It's better, he thinks, if they just pretend like the other doesn't exist.

An alarm on his omnitool beeps. "Shit," he mutters.

"What?" Tarquin asks.

"Have to piss," he mutters. "Can't fucking walk though."

Tarquin stands and offers a hand. "Here. You can lean on me."

Lantar takes the hand, pulls himself up, and Tarquin puts an arm around his cowl, bracing him. They make their way behind a collapsed wall.

After a few moments, Tarquin speaks up. "What's going on? You know Commander Shepard? And how come Vakarian's been giving you dirty looks all night?"

"Yeah, well. He didn't manage to kill me the first time. Maybe he thinks he can glare me to death."

It doesn't take long for Tarquin to put the pieces together. "You're saying that Archangel was Vakarian all along."

"Yes," Lantar mutters.

Tarquin growls. "I don't care how far up in the Hierarchy he is, if he bothers you, I will end him."

"He won't," Lantar says. He finishes, and they make their way back to the crash site.

"If you're sure," Tarquin says, but the anger hasn't left his voice.

Tarquin deposits him back on the ledge and plops down next to him. Lantar hesitates a moment, aware that they're out in plain view, but his tiredness overrules his brain and he leans against Tarquin. Some of the other turians give him a strange look. Tarquin doesn't pull away, but leans back against Lantar so that they're supporting each other.

He drops in and out of a doze as the night passes and the others ready themselves for the what the morning may bring.

 

He jerks awake suddenly. There's a faint glow on the horizon. He's been laid out on his side; Tarquin is gone.

There's a lot of bustling by the shuttle. It's been righted and the engines are flaring. Ready to go then; they can't put off the mission any longer.

Shepard's striding up and down, yelling into her omnitool. Whoever is on the other end is really getting an earful. Sergeants Quintus and Canus are tending to the bodies—laying them out in rows, opening the arms in the traditional burial position, and removing weapons and dog tags. They can't cremate them. The smoke would give away their position. It was a simple battlefield ritual, to allow their spirits to evaporate and be at peace.

Garrus is standing off on his own. but when he sees that Lantar is awake, he makes his way over.

 _No no no_ , Lantar prays. _Go away. Fuck you. I don't want to have this conversation any more than you do._

"Shepard told me what happened," Garrus says in a low voice. "I never intended this—"

"No you didn't," Lantar says. "Guess you decided I've suffered enough, huh?"

Garrus sighs. "I promise that I won't try to finish the job. Just—tell me why. I think I deserve that much, at least. Was it money? Did you want out?" He looks miserable. "If something was wrong, why didn't you tell me?"

Lantar snarls. He cannot believe that Garrus ever thought that of him. "Turns out that being tortured by the Blue Suns can be really persuasive." He thinks about telling Garrus about his damned choice—Archangel or civilians—and decides that no. Garrus doesn't need to know that part.

It's still enough. Garrus jerks back like he's been slapped. "Spirits. I—I should've known. I'm sorr—"

"Let me ask you a question. If you'd killed me, would you be saying this to my grave?"

Garrus says nothing, looks away.

"Thought so. So fuck off. I don't think we need to be in each other's lives anymore."

Before Garrus can respond, Tarquin comes up to them, growling loudly. Garrus looks surprised, but turns and leaves without a word.

"Are you ok?" Tarquin asks him. He's carrying Lantar's crutches, and hands them over.

"I'm fine," Lantar says. He really is, he realizes. Now that that uncomfortable inevitability is over, he feels much lighter. He'd been wanting to tell Garrus where to stick it for so long. The past was past. He arranges the crutches and stands. "Are we ready to go?"

"Yes. And we'll complete this mission no matter what it takes."

 

Lantar slides into the pilot's seat. All the systems look good. The engines are rumbling and ready to go.

The remnants of the platoon board the shuttle and sit. There's too much space in the back, Lantar thinks. But there are enough of them, and they are all grim and set on their goal.

They'll stop Cerberus. At any cost.

They're going to head in first and engage Cerberus, and Shepard's squad will follow behind. He engages the engines, and they lift off the ground. There's no hurry this time, and the ride is smooth. He wends through the ruins, and the old buildings thin out and then they're at the top of the valley. The bomb site is only a klick away.

Tarquin's on com, keeping in touch with Shepard. Lantar drops the shuttle into the valley, and that's when they meet the first Cerberus outpost. Lantar opens the shuttle door, and the sound of gunfire meets his ears.

The first group is easy—Cerberus is caught by surprise—but as they fly further into Cerberus territory, the troops on the ground get thicker.

"Drop us here," Tarquin orders. "Follow after Shepard clears the area. I want to be able to evacuate quickly if something goes to shit."

"Yes sir," Lantar replies. He states into Tarquin's eyes, well aware that this may be the last time he sees him. "Good luck," he says, and tries to memorize Tarquin's face.

Tarquin claps him on the shoulder, and then he's gone.

Lantar slumps back into the pilot's seat, and listens to the gunfire.

Within five minutes, the Alliance shuttle pulls up and drops off Shepard and her squad. Lantar watches Garrus's back as they make their way into the firefight, and isn't sure how to feel. The Alliance shuttle doesn't linger, soaring away.

He can hear everything over the coms, and it's making him nervous. There's crashing sounds, and Tarquin screams something about mortar fire—a moment later, the report that Sergeant Canus is down. Lantar figures that he's given everyone enough of a head start. He pulls the shuttle up into the air and follows the trail left by his people and Shepard.

Something pings on his radar, and he squints at the display. Cerberus shuttles—they're evacuating the bomb site. For a moment, he dares to hope, but then realizes that Cerberus would not willingly leave this bomb behind. His fears are confirmed when Tarquin comes over the com again. "We need to disable the trigger mechanism. We've reached the controls, but Cerberus but up a firewall to slow us down. I need to bypass it. Can you buy me a few minutes?"

He guns the shuttle as Shepard replies. "You better deliver."

"I know what's at stake, Commander," Tarquin replies.

A cry. "Snipers!" And then—"Nobody gets past us! Clear?"

Then Garrus's voice. "Cerberus reinforcements!"

"I need more time!" Tarquin screams.

Lantar's heart leaps into his throat as he pulls the shuttle up over the structures Cerberus has put up. He descends on the bomb site and into the chaos of the firefight.

His com pings. Sergeant Quintus is hailing him. He pulls the shuttle around to her position. She jumps up into the shuttle, followed by a few more troops. "I need a better line to the Cerberus snipers," she says tersely. "10 o'clock."

"Sir," he replies, and takes off again, zooming around so he can give her a better shot. There's gunfire behind him as they fire out of the shuttle doors.

"He's taking fire!" someone calls over com. Lantar contains the shaking in his hands, tries to keep the shuttle steady.

"Commander!" Tarquin calls. "The firewall's down. I'm in. Wait—spirits."

"What?" asks Shepard.

"They fixed the trigger mechanism. It's set to detonate."

_Nononoshitfuck._

"Disarm it!" Shepard orders.

"There's no time!" Tarquin protests. "I'll have to separate the trigger from the bomb. Cover me!"

 _Tarquin. No you fucking cannot._ Lantar abandons their position, pulls the shuttle around so he can see what's going on. Tarquin is climbing the side of the bomb's housing. From this view, he looks tiny.

"Airman Sidonis! Resume your position."

He can't think, can't breathe. Sergeant Quintus's orders fade to buzzing in his brain. Numbly, he watches as Tarquin pulls himself on top of the bomb, and sets about disarming the trigger. The mechanisms clank, and Lantar gapes in horror as Tarquin realizes that something is wrong, climbs back down the side again.

"Sidonis! That's an order!"

Tarquin starts to lose his grip.

"Fuck that," Lantar mutters, and guides the shuttle into a steep dive. Quintus gasps as she loses her footing and falls into the corner of the shuttle.

"Lieutenant!" Shepard screams.

And he can hear Tarquin's voice over the com. "Victory. At any cost." His voice is hollow.

Lantar pulls up and angles the shuttle just as Tarquin falls, the bomb mechanism following him. Tarquin lands in the shuttle with a horrible crash, and Lantar ducks the shuttle away before the collapsing bomb structure can hit them. There's an explosion as the bomb falls away. The shuttle shakes with the force of it.

He is able to pull away from the bomb site, evacuate and flee the Cerberus forces. The Alliance shuttle drops in just as he leaves, to pick up Shepard and her squad.

The mission was a success.

So why does he feel like they failed?

 

Sergeant Quintus is furious. Lantar doesn't blame her. He did disobey orders after all, to rescue Tarquin, whom everyone seems to think should have died to make things right.

Quintus orders him back to the fleet. He doesn't disobey, knowing full well that he'll be stripped of his position the moment they get back to the carrier. He glances back at Tarquin, but the Lieutenant just remains curled up in a corner of the shuttle, not looking at anybody.

The journey back is quiet. The quiet is broken the moment he sets the shuttle down in the hangar. The platoon disembarks and leaves. Quintus talks to one of the officers. Lantar and Tarquin are stripped of their ranks, and escorted to another shuttle. They'll be dropped at a Hierarchy command post while they await their new assignments.

 _It's not fair_ , Lantar thinks. _I disobeyed orders. The only thing Tarquin did was make a bad call._

But there wasn't room for a fuck-up Lieutenant in the Hierarchy. There wasn't room for anyone who delivered less than perfect results.

And it definitely wasn't fair that Tarquin had been expected to die to pay for his mistake. Lantar had disobeyed orders, yes, but his real and unspoken crime was to save someone who had been marked for death.

Tarquin doesn't say anything during the trip. He doesn't look at Lantar.

They are dropped at a Hierarchy command post at a transit station. The view out the window is impressive—the mass relay and all the ships coming and going. Tarquin doesn't seem to notice. They've been sitting in this damn waiting room for an hour at this point, and Tarquin has yet to acknowledge his existence.

People come and go. The person behind the desk glances up at them every once in a while. It might take some time, he'd told them. Hierarchy command is extremely busy with the war effort.

They'll be separated, Lantar has no doubt about that. Shipped off to some new, likely menial, role. Because of information blackouts, they probably won't be able to contact each other.

If Tarquin even wants to talk to him after all this.

He glances sideways at Tarquin. He's still in his armor, dusty and battered from the firefight. They hadn't gotten a chance to change or shower, their bags had just been shoved at them and they were put on the transport.

Finally, Tarquin speaks. "You ruined my death," he mutters. "That was the only chance I had to redeem myself."

Lantar doesn't say anything.

"You...saved my life," Tarquin says a moment later.

"You're welcome," Lantar grumbles.

A second passes. Then there's a low sound. Tarquin's _laughing_.

Lantar stares at him in shock. Tarquin's bent over, laughing his ass off. Then he looks up, still chuckling, and reaches out and puts his hand on Lantar's cheek. Lantar is shocked, but leans into Tarquin's touch. Tarquin grins massively, touches his forehead to Lantar's.

They stay that way for a moment. Lantar begins to laugh as well. Maybe it is kind of funny. They giggle together for a moment or two. Lantar stares into Tarquin's eyes, crinkled with laughter. His eyes are a deep blue.

Despite everything, they survived. And were disgraced. Together. That's fine by him.

After a few moments they break apart, but still remain touching, leaning up against each other like they had on Tuchanka. Tarquin's hand comes around Lantar's waist and strokes him. Lantar finds himself purring quietly.

He doesn't know how long they sit there, but eventually the knowledge that their fate awaits them tears him away from Tarquin. He grabs his crutches and goes up to the desk. "How long is this going to take?" he asks the man.

The turian glances at his screen. "Probably not til tomorrow," he says. "These things can take some time. Especially in the middle of war." He looks up. "No need to hang around here. There's a small hotel at the other end of the station. Come back in the morning and I'll let you know if your new assignments have come through yet."

Lantar nods, and passes the message on to Tarquin. The station isn't very large, but the distance is still far enough that Lantar's limping when they get to the hotel. The whole ordeal has taken its toll on his body. But the pain is an old friend by now. Tarquin slows his pace so that Lantar can keep up with him.

The hotel lobby is staffed by a bored-looking salarian. "How can I help you?" he asks, not even looking up from his datapad.

Tarquin starts to speak, but Lantar interrupts him. "Accessible room for two. Just for a night."

The salarian finally looks up. "Our only accessible room is very small," he says.

"We'll deal," Lantar says, and passes him a credit chit.

The room is small, but no smaller than Tarquin's old cabin. There's only one bed. They'll both fit. Not like they were unused to sleeping side by side.

And judging by the looks Tarquin's been throwing him for the past hour, he has more on his mind than sleeping.

It makes Lantar nervous. Despite his thoughts about fucking Tarquin, he's not sure that he actually could. He can't walk, for fuck's sake. The muscles in his legs are weak and he knows that it shows. Tarquin can't actually want him, can he?

There's other things to take care of first. Tarquin strips out of armor, heads into the bathroom for a while. Lantar just plops down on the bed and dumps his crutches to the side, takes a few painkillers.

Tarquin eventually comes out, dressed in a pair of civvies. He plops down on the bed next to Lantar, puts his arms around him, pulls him close. Lantar would be content to sit this way forever, but Tarquin interrupts his contentedness. "We've only got one more night together," he says. "Let's make the most of it."

"I—"

"You're my best friend," Tarquin continues. "I—this war—I don't know if we'll see each other again. And before that—I want you."

"Tarquin—" He can't quite believe what he's hearing. All his insecurities are flaring, and it hurts to balance them against what he truly wants.

"Please."

"I can't," he protests. "I can't get hard—I've tried—, I can't feel anything below my waist, and I'm fucking incontinent. This won't work."

Tarquin, arms still wrapped around him, buries his face into Lantar's neck. "There's all kinds of fun we can have without you being hard," he says, smiling, his mandibles tickling Lantar. "And we can put down a towel if you're worried."

"It's not—" Lantar pulls away from him. "Look, so many things have gone wrong, ok? Me getting shot, this war, you getting thrown into that mission—I don't want something else to go wrong too." _Not something this important_ , he mentally adds.

Tarquin looks at him, his mandibles flickering. "It's ok. If you don't want—"

"No. Fuck." Lantar buries his face in his hands. "What I mean is that I want this. But I want it to go right."

Tarquin reaches out for him again, and Lantar doesn't pull away. "We'll make it go right," he says, his gaze boring into Lantar's eyes. "Even if it doesn't work, it'll be right. Trust me."

Lantar sighs, relaxing into Tarquin's arms. "I trust you," he says.

Tarquin leans down and brushes foreheads with Lantar again. This time, Lantar reaches for Tarquin as well, stroking the back of his head and leaning forward. Finally. He licks up the length of Tarquin's mandible, which flutters under his touch.

It's good in these moments. Familiar, normal. Tarquin fumbles at Lantar's shirt, and Lantar swats him away and pulls off his shirt, tosses it aside. Tarquin pulls him close, runs his hand down Lantar's back. His fingers find the spot where the surgeons had cut away part of the plating to remove the bullet. Tarquin worries the small dent there, but leaves it soon enough and keeps going. Lantar loses track of it as Tarquin's hand moves down, presumably to cup his ass.

Lantar nearly shuts down as Tarquin pushes him on his back. He can't even feel—fuck. Maybe a slight pressure, nothing more, as Tarquin touches him. He forces himself through the anxiety, reaches out to Tarquin, redirects Tarquin's hand to spots that work. Back of his neck, good. Fringe, really good. Tarquin bends down to nibble at his cowl, and that's good too. He'd never quite realized how sensitive his upper body could be. Now, it's the only thing he has left.

Tarquin pauses in his work to undo Lantar's pants. Lantar winces, aware that he can't lift his hips, move his legs, help Tarquin along. He sits up and shoves Tarquin away again, pulls his pants off on his own terms. He chucks them aside too, and glares at Tarquin, waiting for him to judge. The stupid undergarment that Lantar wears for the incontinence. Tarquin pauses only a moment, and looks at Lantar. "Can I—?"

"Yeah." He's mollified by the fact that Tarquin didn't comment, asked for permission. Tarquin gets up for a moment, brings a towel back from the bathroom. Lantar arranges his legs to accommodate it as Tarquin slides the towel under him. It's hard to hold his legs up, so he lets them fall open. Tarquin hesitates for a moment, and reaches for the fabric. Lantar lets him have this one, and waits as Tarquin tosses it aside.

He hates this. Hates having to confront his body's weakness, hates showing it to his friend. Hates having to work around things. He misses the days when he could just fall into bed with somebody without thinking about it. Planning—logistics. Fuck.

Tarquin takes it in his stride, and before Lantar's aware of it, Tarquin is between his legs and is going down on him.

Lantar reaches out and bops him on the head. Tarquin looks up. "What?"

"This is so one-sided it's not funny," he complains. "You need to strip."

Tarquin grins and pushes himself up. He makes a show of pulling off his clothes, and Lantar smiles too, enjoying it. Tarquin's gorgeous. The rose-grey of his plating is uneven, lighter in some places than others. He's already hard and ready. Lantar watches muscles ripple on his stomach, his arms. And those colony markings—the white barely visible on his pale face.

Lantar reaches out for him, strokes his waist, likes the contrast of his own verdigris coloring against the grey.

Tarquin finishes and bends down over Lantar again, meeting him face-to-face. Lantar bites at his mandible, pulling the tip in between his mouthplates. Tarquin lets him, but shakes him off after a moment and begins touching him again.

And now—when he's in the mood—Tarquin's touches _burn_ , like fire on his skin. He inhales, closes his eyes, loses himself in the sensation. The feeling of Tarquin's weight on his body—his warmth, his breath on Lantar's face. Yeah. This is ok. Back on familiar ground. Not just the sex—Tarquin feels familiar as well.

And Tarquin moves back down his body and Lantar raises his head to watch and is surprised to see that his cock has made an appearance, and it's half erect as well. He'd tried before, on his own, but it hadn't worked.

Maybe he'd just needed the right person all along.

Tarquin's going down on him again, and Lantar can make out a faint sensation of pressure. Absent the feeling, watching is almost as good. He cups the back of Tarquin's head, stroking along his fringe, and Tarquin purrs. He can feel the vibrations. Tarquin abandons his task after a few moments, comes back up. His cock trails along Lantar's waist and Lantar reaches down and takes them both in hand.

Tarquin lets out a strangled sound, and thrusts into Lantar's hand. He picks up a rhythm, and slides his hands under Lantar's body to hold him close. Lantar's other hand comes up and wraps around Tarquin's neck. They move together, Lantar stroking up and down with the one hand, pulling Tarquin close with the other. Tarquin buries his face in Lantar's shoulder, and Lantar does the same, breathing in the smell of him, only a faint hint of Tuchanka left on his skin.

It's the most heartfelt sex he's ever had. He's never had this before, this connection, or this affection for his partner, or this fear—of his changed body, and also the fear that he's not going to see Tarquin again.

But he can forget the fear for now. Because this is working, and he's got Tarquin right here.

The sensation is different from what he's used to. He can't feel much in his groin, but the rest of his body is warm and attuned to every movement, every touch. It's different, but good.

And Tarquin comes with a groan and a shudder. Lantar thinks he does too—he flushes and feels heat spreading through his chest, his muscles tensing and relaxing in a wonderful sort of feeling.

Tarquin pushes himself up and stretches. He looks down at the mess on Lantar's stomach. "Did you—?"

"Yeah." Lantar's mandibles flop open in a soft smile.

Tarquin settles onto the bed next to Lantar. He pulls the towel out from under him and wipes Lantar off. "Useful for something," he says with a grin.

Lantar snorts. "Can you grab my—"

"Hmm? Yeah." Tarquin leans down off the bed, and hands Lantar the undergarment. Lantar pulls it on, flops back down again. He can't remember the last time he felt this relaxed.

Tarquin lays down beside him. "So. Did it go right for you?"

"I—" Lantar hesitates, unsure how to word it. "I'm not broken," he says. "I'm not broken. Things feel _different_ , but not in a bad way. I—" He searches for the words.

"I'm glad," murmurs Tarquin.

"How are you?" Lantar asks, because this is the happiest and most relaxed he's ever seen Tarquin.

Tarquin pulls him in closer, reaching out and stroking his fringe. "It's weird," he says, "but this is the best I've felt in so long. I'm disgraced. But it's freeing. I'm not my father's man anymore, and that is so ok with me."

Lantar purrs, and snuggles into Tarquin's embrace. "Nah. You're just you. and I prefer it that way."

"Well good. And you. You're good the way you are too."

"Yeah," Lantar says. "I think I am."

That's how they fall asleep.

 

In the morning, they pack things up. Lantar takes a quick shower, and together they make their way back to the waiting room.

The man at the desk nods to them, and gives them each a set of orders.  "I'd say 'good luck', but I dunno what good that'll do against Reapers."

Lantar knows it. When he'd initially signed up, he'd been looking to die in the war. He doesn't want that anymore.

The odds are against them. But all they can do is hug and exchange contact information.

They part, and Lantar can only watch Tarquin walk away with a lump in his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

He's assigned to a freighter, to fly supply runs. It keeps him away from the front lines, but that's ok. Lantar finds that he has things to live for now. Tarquin, for one. But also a life not defined by his failure.

In the end, everything converges on Sol system. He's running supplies to Earth, and _something_ happens, some great burst of energy that takes out the Citadel, the mass relays, and the Reapers. The war is won.

They're all stranded in the Sol system while repairs are made to the relays. He spends most of his time moving supplies to where they're needed most. But there is downtime, and he takes the opportunity to do some digging. It's a lot of work, to account for everyone who was in the war. But Lantar doesn't have any trouble finding who he's looking for.

Tarquin is in a hospital in Manchester. His new unit had joined the assault on London, and he had been injured. The details aren't listed, but it's enough to know where he is.

When Lantar gets the chance, he takes his small freighter north from London. The countryside is green and perfect compared to the grey destruction in the more populated areas. He sits back and enjoys the view. Herds of the fluffy white animals that humans keep dot the landscape.

He lands in Manchester. The hospital is a quick jaunt away. Lantar's begun using a hoverchair. It's much quicker and easier on his body when the pain gets bad.

The hospital is bustling. There hadn't been enough room in London for all who needed it, so other city hospitals had taken up the slack. Lantar has to wait a while in reception. When he finally gets to the desk, the human behind it nods. "What can I do for you?"

"Is Tarquin Victus able to have visitors?"

The human types something into his computer. "Family?"

Lantar shifts in his chair. "Friend." Will he be allowed to see him?

The human looks up and nods. "Room 286. He's still recovering from his surgery, so he might get tired easily. Go on up."

"Thanks." Surgery? He was suddenly afraid, remembering how bad he'd been after he'd been shot. What kind of condition would Tarquin be in?

He has trouble making his way down the hallway; there are people everywhere and he's not the only one in a chair. It's a fight for space.

He reaches Tarquin's room. The door is open. He peeks around the corner, taps on the doorframe.

The figure lying in the hospital bed rustles, turns over. "Who is it?" he calls, and it's definitely Tarquin's voice. Lantar smiles, a weight lifting off his chest.

He guides the chair to the side of the bed and grabs the rails on the bed, pulling himself up so he could see. "Hey," he says.

Tarquin grins up at him. "Hey."

His face is weary, that's expected. What Lantar didn't expect was the square of gauze covering Tarquin's left eye, and the scarring that trails out from under the bandage. "What happened?" he asks.

Tarquin grins bigger. "Caught the edge of a grenade blast," he says. "They removed my eye a few days ago."

"You seem...remarkably ok about this," Lantar comments.

"Hey, we won the war, didn't we? An eye seems a small price to pay." Tarquin snickers. "I also might be a little high on meds at the moment."

The worry slips from Lantar and he smiles again. Tarquin twitches a mandible lightly, and reaches up, takes Lantar's hand, shakes it lightly. Lantar squeezes it. "You're not walking?" Tarquin asks, seeing the chair.

Lantar shakes his head. "Nah. I've learned to embrace it. Also easier to navigate destroyed cities this way," he says, and Tarquin cracks up laughing.

They laugh for a few moments, and then Tarquin pokes his tongue out. "You should scram," he says. "The nurse is a tyrant and he'll have your fringe if he thinks you're tiring me out. He threw my father out yesterday."

"Your father's here?" Lantar asks, suddenly worried.

"Yeah. He was on the Citadel and had to evacuate to Earth when the Reapers took it. It's ok," he adds, seeing Lantar 's face. "He's just happy I'm alive."

"I won't have to meet him, will I?"

Tarquin's laughter brings the nurse, who insists that Tarquin should rest and hurries Lantar away.

 

Lantar comes back the next day. There's someone in Tarquin's room when he gets there though, and the door is shut. Lantar parks himself against a wall to wait.

The door eventually opens, and an unfamiliar turian walks out. The man is obviously Tarquin's father; the resemblance is so strong that it couldn't be anyone else. He's a bit darker in coloring than Tarquin, and is wearing a formal suit. He doesn't look at Lantar, but starts down the hall.

But when Lantar goes to move into Tarquin's room, the man suddenly turns around and starts. He quickly comes back. "Excuse me," he says. "Are you Lantar Sidonis?"

Lantar's throat goes dry. This man wasn't just Tarquin's father, but also the Primarch of Palaven. Lantar debates whether to stand or not, but in the end, just nods and salutes.

"At ease," the Primarch says. He hits a button on the wall that closes Tarquin's door. "May I speak to you for a few minutes?"

"Yes sir."

"Please. No need to be so formal." He holds out his hand. "Adrien Victus. As you've probably already figured out."

"It's good to meet you—" He swallows the "sir".

"You as well." Victus pauses for a moment. "My son is very fond of you. Especially given that you saved his life."

Lantar isn't sure what to say to that, so he just nods.

"He's lucky to have your loyalty," Victus adds. "And I owe you a debt as well. And an apology. I shouldn't have thrown him into that. If it weren't for you—he's the only family I have left. Thank you."

"I'd be lost without him as well," Lantar says. It seems to be enough, because Victus smiles. His smile is as big as Tarquin's, though it seems less practiced.

"I'll leave you to him, then," he says, claps Lantar on the shoulder, which is unexpected, and leaves.

Lantar hits the button to open the door, his heart pounding slightly. Tarquin's sitting up in bed, playing some kind of game on his omnitool. He shuts it off when Lantar comes in, and grins. "So did you meet—?"

"Yeah." Lantar shakes his head. "He's a little…stately."

Tarquin roars with laughter. "I've never heard that one before. Most people just say 'intimidating'. Nah, he's not bad. I think he wraps himself up in his public image, though. But never mind that. I never asked you—how did the rest of the war treat you?"

So they share stories. Tarquin's dying to know how the rebuilding is going. "What are you going to do once the relays get back up?" Lantar asks.

Tarquin shrugs. "I'm heading back to Palaven. Try to figure out what to do with my life now that this military thing is over. What about you?"

"Could I come with you?"

"That would be great."

 

So in the end, they head to Palaven. There's a lot of reconstruction to be done. Lantar throws himself into it, running freight and supplies all over the greater Cipritine area. Tarquin gets his hands dirty with construction.

It works out. Adrien Victus soon ceases to scare Lantar, and almost becomes like a father to him. Tarquin's cheerful as ever. He startles when people come up on his blind side, so Lantar takes to warning him with a simple "On your left." Even with all the destruction from the war, Lantar falls in love with Palaven's beauty—the silver landscapes, the bright sunlight, the gardens that people are setting up to reduce the impact of food shortages.

Lantar gets more comfortable with his body. He doesn't force himself to walk on bad days, and works with the doctor to manage the pain. Tarquin refuses to hear any idea of getting a cybernetic eye, and learns to adapt. He does look hot in an eyepatch, Lantar admits. They push each other through things. And it works.

Everything's good. Everything's right.


End file.
